FRANCE, part 6

7.16.2007

Whew. Two weeks left, and too much to do. Amidst reading two more plays, writing two more critiques, and memorizing a fair deal of modern French history, I’ve got my work cut out for me. I keep reminding myself that it is only school, and there’s a lot of learning to be done outside of classes. Just this past weekend, I finally started to feel a little more comfortable with my French. When people ask me for directions now, and I can generally give them. I find that I have more problems when I try and translate a thought directly from English than if I come up with the thought in French in the first place.
This afternoon I saw a play called Fin de Terre (The End of the World). It was a somewhere between George Orwell and Al Gore—a story centered on the end of the world due to global warming. I had trouble understanding it because of its technical vocabulary, but I hope to find the script to read so that I can better comprehend the details. The show was particularly refreshing because it was the first “representational” play that I have seen at the Festival; everything else has been very “presentational” in manner, breaking down the “fourth wall” and acknowledging the audience. Also, the costumes were pretty sweet—futuristic, but no tinfoil or neon.
I spent the evening writing postcards (I’m running out of time if I want them to get there before I do!) and reading a play for my class. Nothing too exciting, but I guess it can’t always be.

7.17.2007

Today was a tired day. I think it is the heat that wears me out. I realize it is even hotter at home right now, but at least they have air-conditioning there. Classes went by very slowly this morning. I’m beginning to feel burnt out. I will be glad when they are over.
In the afternoon, my theatre class went to a “rencontre,” a symposium of sorts, of Maryse Condé, the woman who wrote the first play we read this semester, Pension les Alizés. I liked her because she was very rebellious in her old age, doing the opposite of what people wanted or expected her to do. The interviewer was asking questions for which he clearly had a specific answer in mind; however, she would completely turn the tables on him. For instance, he would say, “You once said…Does that mean…?” to which she would respond, “That was 20 years ago. A lot can happen in 20 years—people change, opinions change.” Afterwards, three other girls and I went to “boire un verre” with our professor. It got a little awkward when she asked us for our feedback about the course. I tried to explain to her that it was hard for me to make all the connections and critically analyze the plays because when I read them, my main goal is to understand the plot. If I read the play a second time, perhaps I would see more clearly the underlying themes and symbols. But I do not want to spend my time re-reading them when I could be “learning by living.” Part of me says that I should work hard and get the most out my classes; but the other part is telling me to take advantage of the “course of life.” It is the battle between book-smart and street-smart, I suppose…
This evening I saw the second required play for my theatre class, Attitude Clando. It was part of the “Festival In” and started at 11 pm. Fortunately it was only an hour long; I don’t think my back could have lasted much longer, as we were sitting on bleachers, six inches above the ground. The play was a monologue, written, directed, and performed by the same man from the Republic of the Congo. Mr. Higgins would have been proud of his wonderful diction. The “stage” was outside in a garden. A bed of hot coals formed a circle around the actor while he gave his monologue in almost complete darkness. I only wish I could have better understood what he was saying. I felt as though if I had known just a few words that he kept repeating, I would have been able to follow much better. Of course, I didn’t remember these words after the show, so I couldn’t look them up. Shoot.

7.18.2007

Wednesdays are wonderful. In between classes, I read in the park. It was pretty hot, so benches in the shade were in high demand. Because no one wants to sit in the sun, complete strangers end up sitting very close to you; although, the “personal space bubble” is much smaller in Europe than in the US. This doesn’t bother me, except on days like today when the sweaty man next to me pulled out his tobacco, rolled his own cig, and started smoking. Ahem, ahem.
This evening I met Jessie to see Movin’ Melvin Brown, the show we tried to see a week ago but couldn’t because it was sold out. It’s the only show out of the 700/800 that is from the US. The crowd huddled around the door for nearly a half-hour, waiting for the house to open to fight for premium seats. About five minutes before the show starts, some black guy pushes his way through with a giant garment bag—Melvin Brown, himself, no doubt. Perhaps his dinner was late, or he didn’t know that you have to ask for the bill in France before they bring it. Anyway, the show started a little late, but Jessie and I had front-row seats. He sang a variety of songs by Ray Charles, Sammy Davis, Jr., Louie Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and himself. He was also a very talented and energetic dancer, doing everything from Frank Sinatra tap to Michael Jackson moves. Between numbers, he would tell little anecdotes or jokes, in English, of course. I think Jessie and I were the only people in the audience who understood him, since he had a rather strong accent. Then, about half-way through the show:

M. BROWN. Now is anyone here familiar with clogging? Does anyone know how to clog?
JESSIE. (in an unnecessarily loud whisper) Hey, isn’t that what you do?!
M. BROWN. It looks like we have some cloggers right here in the front. Do you know how to clog?
ME. Yes, I do.
M. BROWN. (clearly, a little shocked) Really?!
ME. Yes.
M. BROWN. Well come on up here, both of you.
JESSIE. I don’t know how to clog!
ME. I don’t have the proper shoes!
M. BROWN. Oh, come on, both of you get up here.

I was utterly dumbfounded. Was this really happening? It’s not every day that you run in to someone who 1) knows that clogging and wooden shoes without backs are not synonymous, and 2) actually knows how to clog. So, even though Jessie has never clogged in her life and I was in flip-flops, we went up on stage and did some impromptu clogging with him! He started out with a bunch of shuffles, and I followed. Then we broke into the time-step, followed by the lumber-jack move—not really “clogging” steps, per say, but hey, I was dancing on stage in France with some guy who has performed with the likes of B.B. King, Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Willie Nelson, and Harry Connic Jr.! Who would have thought!? After Jessie and I sat back down, he proceeded to do some real clogging—the dance that took my family half-way around the world to China six years ago—and I must say: he was pretty darn good.
For the rest of the show, I was on Cloud Nine. Towards the end, he inquired if there were any swing dancers in the crowd. Well, I wasn’t about to raise my hand, but neither was anyone else in the room. Mr. Brown looked at me and said, “I bet you know how to swing dance. Get up here.” Some other French lady shoved her timid friend forward as well, and we took the stage, acting as sort of improv, backup dancers while he sang. I busted out in a solo version of West Coast swing with some Charleston thrown in for kicks. In the middle of the song, he danced with each of us individually, and he sure had the moves down! The audience loved it. Some lady got her camera out and started snapping away—it’s a little weird to think that I’ll be in some complete stranger’s photo album…
After the performance, I told him where I was from and how I started clogging. He said he never expected to find anyone who knew how to clog in France, and I told him I was equally surprised! Go figure. I was too much in a state of disbelief to return home after that, so Jessie and I went out for a drink and replayed the whole evening. I’m sure no one will be as impressed as me was when I relate this story. I guess it’s another “one of those things you had to be there for,” but I was there and it was pretty crazy.

7.19.2007

It was hard to wake up this morning. Fortunately, I didn’t have class until 11 am, and there was some coffee left when I got up. Last night I had a nightmare that I went home without any of my luggage. I’m excited to be returning to my family, but I am not looking forward to packing everything up again. My life has been rather nomadic lately, wandering from place to place, packing, unpacking, and packing again, never staying in one spot for too long. I keep thinking of something Melissa told me before I left: “Kelsye, I knew you would never come back here and stay. You are just not that kind of person.” It made me sad that she said this, but perhaps she is right. When I am away, I miss home horribly. However, when I am there, I feel as though I’m missing out on all that this world has to offer. Life is a crazy balancing act, I suppose. The tightrope is very narrow and high, but fortunately I have a safety net of people who love me and who will catch me when I fall. (Okay, that was a corny metaphor, but work with me…)
This evening I saw Les 8 Femmes (The 8 Women) with a couple other girls. It was based off of a movie (or maybe the movie was based off of the play…I’m not sure), and the mystery, “who-done-it” pot was reminiscent of Mousetrap or Clue, the movie. Each of the eight women had a corresponding instrumentalist playing in the orchestra, and the staging was really cool. The storyline was a bit tricky to follow, though, especially since it was 11:15 pm and I was really tired.

7.20.2007

I met Nicole and Jessie for lunch at the crêperie today before rushing off to see Le Ménagerie de verre (The Glass Menagerie) with Jessie. I was excited to see another show that I’ve seen in English, but about half-way through the performance, I remembered that I wasn’t a big fan of it to begin with. I saw it this past year at the Guthrie, and found the set to be stellar, but the story itself, a little too dull, slow, and sad for my liking. At least this production was only half as long.
In the afternoon, I wandered back to the apartment and ended up falling asleep. This heat takes it out of me—and I suppose the fact that I haven’t gone to sleep before 1 am this whole week doesn’t help. Tonight ended up being another late night too. I saw Roméo hait Juliette (Romeo Hates Juliette), a parody of Billy’s tragic classic which they interpreted in eight or nine different ditties: freeze-frame, musical, English, Spanish, Russian (really French with –ski added on to the end of every word), etc. Even though I missed a lot of the verbal humor, it was still droll, thanks to the abundance of visual humor.
The play finished around 12:15 am, just in time for me to stop by the FNAC and pick up a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. Only the English version was released, and by English, I mean British; the French version doesn’t come out until October. Nonetheless, I was pretty proud that I got it eight hours before everyone at home, and I didn’t even have to wait in line! ; ) I, however, will NOT be burning the midnight oil, reading to the end of the book. In fact, I don’t think I’ll even start it until after my final exams because I know that when I pick it up, there is no putting it back down.

7.21.2007

This morning, I met the other students at the train station for our final excursion, destination: Arles. This time we actually took the train. It was exciting because the seats were in little cabins like in Harry Potter (everyone’s mind is on HP at the moment). When we arrived, we visited the Roman Amphitheatre with the Archeology/Architecture prof. I think I learned a lot more because I knew I didn’t have to remember everything, since I dropped that class for History. For instance, if it started raining during one of the games, no worries; they would just cover the entire arena with a giant sheet. I can’t imagine how much fabric that would take!
For lunch, I ate at the café that Van Gogh immortalized in his “Le Café la Nuit.” It was ridiculously over-priced, but I suppose if you own that place, you can charge what you want and people will come. Too bad Van Gogh didn’t whack himself, because that café owes him a fortune. After lunch, I did a speed-walking tour of the open-air market—the largest in France. It was just when everyone was shutting down and closing up for the day, but I still got to see some of the giant wheels of potent cheese and the many assortments of olives. Then we all met back up with the prof and examined the architecture significance of the Cathedral St. Trophime, followed by a visit to the cloister. While humming “How do you solve a problem like Maria,” I pondered how peaceful it must have been to live in quiet reflection, completely shut off from the material frills and problems of the world.
I spent the rest of the afternoon walking through town, window shopping, and people watching. There were several weddings at the Hôtel de Ville (the city hall), and every hour another round of honking cars would pull up, decked out with beautiful, fresh floral bouquets would pull up; another elegant woman in white would gracefully appear; and everyone would stop what they were doing and ogle. One of the cars was a dark green Jaguar, just like the one mum had. I thought of dad’s story that when I was of a wee 3 years of age, I allegedly vowed to not marry anyone who didn’t have at least one Jaguar. I guess that’s why I’m still single.
We took the train back to Avignon, and I went back to the apartment for dinner. I was feeling a bit theatre-comatose, so I was planning on taking it easy and catching up on my reading. I realized that it was my last Saturday night in Avignon, though, and decided that I couldn’t possibly stay in. Instead, I went for a long walk around town, and when my legs could not carry me any further, I stopped at a café, ordered a glass of wine, and pulled out the last play for my theatre class. After struggling through a few pages, I decided I needed something a little lighter and began reading about the history of the high-heel (a book Aisling loaned me before we parted ways). It was quite enjoyable, just my wine, my book, and me.

7.22.2007

A wonderful choir sang at mass this morning, but the organist sounded like he was from OLPH. ; ) It was bittersweet, being my last mass in the Cathédral de Notre Dame des Doms. Afterwards, I met some other girls for lunch, did a little souvenir shopping, and went to the Musée d’Angladon, the museum with the Impressionist paintings in Avignon. It was a little private collection, but they had several paintings by Monet, Manet, Degas, Renoir, Picasso, Cézanne, and Van Gogh. I love 19th and 20th century art; it makes me really happy for some reason.
The rest of my day was spent catching up on homework and preparing for this crazy last week. I am very ready for classes to be done with. I feel as though I’ve hit a brick wall, and I can’t go any further. The fact that I’ll be headed home in about a week doesn’t help either; I’m not working as hard as I should be since I know I won’t have to speak French again until September. My language skills have undoubtedly progressed, but I’m still far from fluent. I find it rather discouraging because in order to really learn the language, I would have to live here and submerse myself in it, i.e., no American-student, English-speaking friends. I am very grateful for the friends I have made, but I don’t think we helped each other improve our French very much.